Ways To Handle
by Lunaculus
Summary: We all have our own monsters to face. Funnily enough, sometimes those monsters are struggling with the very same issues that we thought they represented. Vent Oneshot. Might write more of the other characters if I feel the need to. TW: mentions of suicide
1. Sans

**CONTENT WARNING: Contains suicidal thoughts**

 **Sans**

Time is a funny concept. You kind of lose track of it when you live underground with no sunlight streaming in. Ever. Locked in a constant night where the cold light piles snow on top of your even colder body can mess one up pretty bad if they're not used to it.

I should know. I'm used to it and I'm still messed up.

It's one of those motionless days again. You know, the kind of day when you can feel the gravity chain you up to your bed. Your back presses heavily against the mattress and you can't bring yourself to fight against the restraints of the blanket that apparently turned to stone while you slept. At best you can give the world a quick frown before drowning yourself in your bed sheets and resuming your dreamless sleep. The pattern repeats a few more tries until I hear the distant noise of Papyrus lecturing me about my laziness. I can't make out the words but I know what it's about. As I open my eyes and stare at the dust particles dancing near the roof, above my head, the voice slowly drifts off as he stomps away in frustration.

I contemplate joining that dance. Not for any particular reason other than out of laziness and incompetence to do anything of value. There's at least a dozen tasks I should be attending to yet instead I'm reminiscing on what it felt like to turn to dust.

It's no longer really a painful memory, nor a scary one. After countless resets I've come to find solace in it. The peace after was... sweet. Nothing to worry over. No reason to force yourself out of bed. Just the endless rest that I so intensely crave. It's coming either way, despite everything. The end is most likely wandering through the ruins by now, slowly approaching me with a knife sharpened and ready.

Hunger makes my nonexistent stomach growl with need. A wave of nausea rushes over me at the sheer thought of eating, however. The smell of Pap's spaghetti, that he kindly made me for breakfast and laid on my nightstand, does little to help. I already feel the bile gathering in my throat but I manage to force it back down with some effort. Not throwing up might be a task, but cleaning away the vomit before Papyrus would notice and worry is even more so. So it's better to just swallow it down.

The first few tears trickle down my face and I'm useless to stop them. Again, there's no real reason to cry. I won't help anything and will only drain my energy further. Soon I won't be able to drag my bones out of bed at all. It's not like it would be anything new tho. I'm such a lazybones after all. The rest of the tears come pouring out in a cascade and I take a deep breath, shaking. As I'm still unable to move, they stain my pillow and I feel myself choking due to the strong, shuddering sobs.

The silence in my room intensifies around me. It wraps its hands around my body and squeezes tightly. My lungs ache. Breathing is difficult. I can hear a static ringing noise echoing within my skull. The same, calm noise I recall from the hallway right before everything went black. I cling to it. I don't want it to leave. The noise is peaceful and comforts me. The sound of upcoming rest.

What does it matter if Pap sees me like this and worries.

What does it matter if I can't bring myself to eat.

What does it matter if I can't get up anymore.

What does it matter to a skeleton with no future in a world with no future.

I guess the best epitaph of my incompetence and laziness is my very own existence.


	2. Flowey

**WARNING: MILD GORE AND CHARACTER DEATH**

Somewhere in the middle of the threads of timelines... I lost a name. The name of someone... dear. Important. It's hard to piece together whose name that was with all these shards of memories scattered about in an unclear mess. I vaguely remember someone telling me once that the reason why memories are so important is because they awaken feelings inside of us. A happy memory can be used to ignite the flame of hope within us in our hardest times. A scary memory teaches us to be wary in certain situations to avoid danger. Angry memories can help us realize that maybe the person causing that anger to us is not someone we want to associate with. Different emotions teach us different things, each of them having their own unique color.

As I reminiscent on the feeling of Her pulse slowly fading to nothingness under my tight grip, the sound of Her wheezing last breaths and desperate attempts to whimper out a name...

What color did I see that night?

She brings me a piece of pie with the widest, friendliest smile on her face. I know the words by heart already, so I let them turn into an incoherent mess as her lips form them. I nod when she expects me to and She extends her soft, fur-covered hand towards me. The caress is short and experimental upon my petals. I mouth the next sentence with her, unable to utter it out loud.

"I'm so happy to have some company!"

Is that how I'm feeling? Am I... happy?

If this is happiness, does it mean I'm always happy?

Honestly, it doesn't feel like such a big deal as people make it out to be.

It sucks.

The buttercups are overflowing. Some of the petals start falling out, both from the strength of her gagging and struggling. Her eyes glance around rapidly in search for a way out, but there is none. Her nostrils move quickly in the rhythm of her labored breathing, almost matching the movement of her panicked irises. I watch her struggling with little interest and pick up another bouquet of those poisonous, yellow flowers. Her eyes dart towards me momentarily and her gaze meets mine. As if to beg me to stop and to ask me the very same question that plagues my mind.

I shove the flowers in her already full mouth and lean back with an absentminded sigh.

She'll have to swallow eventually.

She brings me a piece of pie with the widest, friendliest smile. I turn my face away. After a couple hundred times I've grown to loathe the mere smell and just the thought of taking a bite makes me sick. I can feel her concerned gaze look me up and down. She opens her mouth to speak, to ask if I'm okay, but I stop her. I smash the pretty porcelain plate on the wall with a fast, effortless swipe of my vines. The sound of it shattering lingers in the room eerily before being replaced with a desperate sob.

"Why are you being so ungrateful? What did I do to you to make you treat me like this? Do you really hate me this much?"

I don't know.

Do I?

The foul smelling piece of pie rests in the corner among the sharp shards of white, flower-patterned porcelain. Or at least the few of those shards that are still remaining. The color pools from her broken eye as she screams in pain, holding her face in her arms. As if hiding her eye would somehow bring her sight back like in a game of Peek-A-Boo.

What an idiot.

"Why", she screams. "Why."

I'm wondering the same as I wrap my vines around her throat as I've grown accustomed to do. Why? No matter how I change things, it's always all the same. The same color that steadily pours from the eye that a shard sticks out of, like an edge of a mountain sticking through a waterfall.

It's all gray. And always will be.


End file.
